Bride for a Knight. Margaret Moore
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lot of them.”
“Even your own daughter, my lord?”
“Well, she’s a woman, isn’t she?”
Yes, she was very much a woman, Roland thought as he scanned the chapel without moving his head. Although hastily assembled, given that it had been less than a sennight since he’d arrived and the marriage agreed upon, there was the usual assortment of guests one could expect at the union of two powerful families, including the nobles and hangers-on who’d come to any feast. Also among them would be those who wanted to be noticed and those who would be noticed regardless of their station, like Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron, the husband of his bride’s cousin. Few men were as tall as Roland, but he was. Fewer men wore their hair to their shoulders, as they both did. Even fewer were Welshmen, or had that aura of power and command Rheged possessed. Such a man could be a valuable ally, or a dangerous enemy.
No one from Roland’s family or household was there, of course. Even if he had wanted his twin brother in attendance, there hadn’t been enough time.
His gaze drifted to Sir Rheged again.
He well recalled Sir Rheged’s prowess in tournaments. Nobody had been more delighted than he when Rheged defeated his boastful braggart of an older brother, and nobody was more grateful that Rheged’s wife, that slender slip of a woman, had rid the world of Broderick. After Broderick had disgracefully attacked and killed an old man, he had then fought and nearly killed Rheged, even though the man was so sick he could barely stand. Tamsin had killed him in the struggle to save her wounded husband.
Rheged had surely spoken of him to Mavis. Perhaps he also owed Rheged for her good opinion.
“If I have to send someone to fetch her again,” her father muttered, “she’ll regret it!”
“If someone needs to fetch her, I will go,” Roland said. And if he found she’d changed her mind, he would leave DeLac at once.
Fortunately, and to his vast relief, the sound of the crowd of villagers, soldiers and servants gathered outside in the courtyard began to grow louder, like the dull roar of ocean waves in the distance. Everyone in the chapel turned expectantly toward the opening doors—and there was Mavis, her white veil not quite covering her golden hair that shimmered in the autumn sunlight, a smile on her beautiful face.
A fierce hunger that was more than lust seized him as his bride walked toward him with slow deliberate steps, her head high, a smile on her luscious lips, her shining, bright blue eyes holding his. Friendship, much as he desired it, suddenly seemed a weak and feeble thing compared to what her smile promised.
“Thank God,” Lord DeLac said under his breath.
Roland didn’t reply. His happiness had diminished, for he saw that despite her smile, his bride’s lips trembled, making him fear she wasn’t as confident and happy as she was trying to appear.
That was probably so of every bride, he told himself, and given his family, some trepidation should surely be expected. Once they were wed, though, he would do all he could to make her see that he was not like the rest of his family. He was the dutiful, honorable son of Sir Blane of Dunborough, not the cruel, greedy Broderick or a wastrel like Gerrard.
Joining them at the altar, Mavis stood between Roland and her father as Father Bryan appeared from the sacristy and began to bless their union.
Roland scarcely breathed throughout the entire ceremony. He dreaded someone suddenly objecting or Gerrard bursting through the doors. Mercifully nothing untoward occurred before he put the ring on the bride’s finger and the priest spoke of sealing their vows, then looked at him expectantly.
The kiss. He was supposed to kiss his bride.
No woman of any worth will ever want a cold stick like you.
Roland was no novice, no lad about to kiss a lass for the first time. He had been with women, albeit only when natural urges threatened to distract him from his duties, and even then, the coupling had been a simple transaction, money for service provided.
This was his wife. His beautiful, desirable wife, who could make the gods jealous, let alone Gerrard, and—best of all—who had agreed to the marriage.
He took Mavis in his arms and kissed her, and it was no perfunctory, public kiss. It was a kiss to show them all—including Mavis—that he knew how to love a woman.
Until she slid her arms around him and parted her lips. Thrilled, excited, he forgot everything except her and deepened the kiss. He would have kept kissing her had not Lord DeLac loudly cleared his throat and muttered that he was starving.
Roland drew back and was even more delighted when he saw that although Mavis, blushing with suitable maidenly modesty, looked down at the floor, there was a little smile playing about her lips that made him wish the wedding feast was over, so they could be alone.
And in the bridal bed.
* * *
Mavis could hardly look anybody in the eye as she left the chapel, not even Tamsin. She had known that there would be a kiss at the end of the ceremony, nor had Roland’s been her first. A few bold young nobles had cornered her in the shadows at feasts and put their lips over hers.
Those kisses had been almost childish, like playacting. Roland’s kiss was completely, wonderfully different. She had never felt anything like the rush of burning need that seemed to leap from his lips to hers, not even in her daydreams. She’d been completely unprepared for the reality of Roland’s embrace and her own passionate response, or the way desire lingered after he let her go.
Until her father pushed past them to lead the way to the hall.
Together she and Roland entered the larger chamber decorated with white linen on the tables, fresh rushes on the floors and new candles in the stands and on the tables. Garlands of evergreen hung from the sconces—Tamsin’s doing, no doubt. Their scent filled the air, along with that of the food coming from the kitchen.
“Where’s the wine?” her father demanded.
A servant hurried forward with a goblet, and her father couldn’t even wait for Father Bryan to say grace before downing the contents in a gulp. His amen was more of a belch.
The rest of the guests, clearly not troubled by any thoughts other than the food, the company and the entertainment to come, ate and drank with gusto, tossing bones and bits of meat to the hounds wandering among the tables. The servants were kept busy bringing more ale and wine, along with soups, roasted meat, pottages and bread, pastries and sweetmeats. As miserly as her father could be, he spared no expense when it came to food and drink, or her dowry, either, to ensure the alliance he craved.
Sitting beside her as stiff as a soldier on parade, Roland ate sparingly and drank less. He barely touched the dainties she’d prepared with her own hands. Thankfully, his manners were impeccable—a pleasant surprise, for his father and older brother had been distinctly lacking in that regard.
Unfortunately, Roland rarely spoke. She had already learned he wasn’t a talkative man, but she wished he would say something more in response to her comments and queries than a simple yes or no, especially with Tamsin and Rheged looking on.
Because they were, and because other guests also occasionally glanced their way, she made no sign that she was at all disturbed. She kept up a string of observations about the guests, the harvest, trade, the weather—anything she could think of. She took comfort from the fact that if Roland didn’t answer, at least he didn’t silence her.
Her father paid no heed to her at all, his attention focused on the food, and especially the wine.
At last the meal was finished. At about the same time her father began to nod off in his chair, in spite of the presence of the guests and his new son-in-law. She glanced at her husband, but if he noticed her father’s state, he mercifully made no sign.
She surreptitiously gestured for Denly, one of the senior household servants, to draw near. “Have two of the men assist my father to his bedchamber,”